The Bottom of the Jar

by Abdellatif Laabi

  15

  IT TOOK QUITE some time to get over the horrors of that misadventure. But the stream of life eventually got back on course, toward the new lands of the future, ensuring the growth of bones and desires, loosening the tongue and the spirit, pushing toward the discovery of what would be etched in the heart like the score of the music of being. Bouncing back, Namouss was now ready to explore new realms and continue on his way.

  It wasn’t that school had lost the allure of its early days. Even though he’d occasionally landed himself in hot water, he still took much delight in that universe where knowledge remained an object of desire, despite unforeseen hazards. He had simply become a little skeptical. This distancing led him to getting back into the swing of life as it unfolded in his household, his neighborhood, and his city. He had a renewed taste for these places after having unjustly neglected them, he thought to himself. Fez hadn’t changed one bit and neither had his family, and he found the company of his friends soothing. He just had to let himself flow into the waiting mold. What tranquillity!

  It’s springtime in Fez. We can dwell a little on this without sliding into lyricisms to describe its splendor. The sky opens its dance card, flips through its pages of fluid blue, its openness a purveyor of dew that invites the light to a dance where only the fingertips touch. The music is the work of the master of silence, skilled in the art of proportions and using only the lightest of touches, letting out only a few sounds and voices – happy harmonies that flow into the city to compose the eternal symphony of a world tightly wrapped in its own secrets.

  It is the time when Fezzis – those incorrigible city dwellers – feel the need to air themselves, reconnect with nature, feast their eyes on something green, and gaze at God’s sky. They call this the nzaha. There were orchards to be found in the immediate vicinity of the Medina, where they could give themselves over to rustic pleasures without going out into the countryside. If someone didn’t happen to own such an orchard, there would surely be a friend who might lend them the use of one for a day. One had to take advantage of one’s extended family. Early in the morning, a donkey would be loaded with all the essentials – a mattress, blankets, provisions – and the whole family would head to the orchard.

  The orchard Namouss discovered that particular spring could be found at the exit of Bab Lahdid, down the slope that led to Bab Jdid. It was a walled-off vegetable garden dotted with a number of fruit trees that were watered by the irrigation channels snaking alongside them, and it also had a well with stone foundations. In the shadiest spot was a spacious nouala, which resembled the one Driss had rented in Sidi Harazem. The entire family was there. Making an extremely rare appearance was Uncle Si Mohammed, along with his wife and children. Uncle Touissa was expected to arrive toward the end of the morning, when he would rouse from his kif-induced stupor.

  Ghita’s mood, always unpredictable, on that day was particularly colorful. Abruptly deciding “not to get her hands dirty,” she folded her arms and assigned all her chores to Zhor, her eldest daughter, and to Zhor’s cousins.

  “Why,” she asked, “should my shoulders bear all the burden? Am I not also a Muslim? At least for once in my life I have the right to sit and scratch my head and ‘heed my bones.’ Anyhow, it’s not like there’s much to do! The kofta and the kebabs are seasoned already. There’s nothing left to do but stick them on skewers and fire up the barbecue.”

  Having said her fill, she stretched out on the mattress inside the nouala, indifferent to the commotion taking place around her and the bewitching spectacle of nature outside.

  Namouss knew his mother’s sulk wouldn’t last long. Sooner or later her hands or tongue would get itchy. Eventually she would involve herself in this or that, discharge the girls from their duties, and take over the preparations of the lunch. Namouss knew Ghita like the back of his hand. Her behavior that day had a simple explanation: the presence of his aunt, with whom Ghita had never settled the score since their disastrous cohabitation many years earlier when she and Driss were newlyweds. Faced with the woman who had assumed the role of stepmother and had always treated her like a servant, Ghita now needed to make a show of the skills she had acquired and the independence she had won for herself. So there!

  After formulating this diabolical analysis, Namouss decided to let go of his mother’s skirt and wandered off into the garden. Not far from the well, he stumbled on the spot where the men had assembled around his uncle, basking in the glow of his words while they waited to sip their tea. He stopped, out of politeness. Having noted his presence, Driss invited Namouss to sit down.

  “Come listen to what the haji, your uncle, has to say about Mecca and Medina, my son, and may God not deny us the chance to visit these holy places.”

  Haji Uncle Mohammed had actually just returned from his pilgrimage. Namouss knew all about it. He’d seen the gifts Uncle Mohammed had brought back for his parents. Ghita had received a vial containing holy water from the well of Zamzam. Driss was given a . . . burial shroud. What a bizarre present, Namouss thought, on seeing that ordinary-looking piece of white cloth, exact replicas of which were to be found on sale every day at the Kissarya. But Driss, ecstatic, insisted it was the best present one could bring back from over there. So there you have it!

  Haji Mohammed weighed his words carefully and intoned them with a baritone that came deep from within his chest. There was a catch in his throat as he spoke.

  “If you have never gone near these blessed places, rest assured you’ve seen nothing yet. Over there, the heart opens so that it may be washed clean of earthly sins. The light of faith floods over it. You no longer suffer from heat, hunger, or thirst. That was when we’d left the valley of Mina heading toward Mount Arafat. We had passed through Muzdalifa and around noon were in sight of the Mount of Mercy. When we got there, we began to pray and to recite the Qur’an, carrying on until sunset. How can I express what we felt at this stage in our pilgrimage? Yes, dear ones, we had come closer to God and were surrounded by His glory, which in turn surrounded the whole world wherever Muslims would be found. After that, we quickly made our way back to Muzdalifa, where we camped out waiting for dawn. We no longer felt the need for sleep. On the following day, when we set out for Mina, we felt refreshed, as if we’d had a good night’s sleep. It was the tenth day of Dhu al-Hijjah, the Feast of the Sacrifice. We had carried out the stoning of the devil earlier that morning. With each stone cast against Satan, his oldest and youngest son, we freed ourselves of our sins and shielded ourselves from the ruses the devil and his descendants had in store for us. Then we all lined up to pray in unison, as if we were one. The songs of angels reached our ears, blending with the chorus of blessings our loved ones were sending us from the beyond. At that moment – and pay close attention to what I’m about to tell you – I raised my eyes to the sky and the face of Haji Abdeslam, my departed father, came before me, aglow in light. From his murmurs I understood he was calling for me to follow him. I felt very grateful toward him. My immediate and dearest wish was to prostrate myself and recite the Shahada and never get up again. Could a believer wish for anything greater than to bring peace to his soul and be buried in the land that had been privileged to see the birth of our Beloved, and which at the end of His life had welcomed His perfumed body?”

  At the conclusion of this speech, the assembled men rose in a unanimous Allahu Akbar! Their eyes were wet, their spirits seized by a sweet reverie. A simple question, asked by Haji Mohammed’s eldest son, broke the spell.

  “How are the Muslims from other countries?”

  “There are whites and blacks, as well as Chinese, Indians, Persians, and even Russians. Not many among them spoke our language. We were obliged to use sign language to communicate. Neither do they eat like we do. I must say that when we Moroccans shared our food with our closest neighbors, they were full of admiration. You can find the whole world in Fez, gentlemen. Our cuisine knows no equal. Is there anything better than a beef tagine with stewed vegetables, roast chicken
with pickled lemons and olives, pigeon pastilla with almonds, or our traditional seven-vegetable couscous? One day I allowed myself to be tempted by a group of Indians who had invited me to taste one of their dishes. I won’t let that happen to me again. One mouthful was enough. It was like the fires of Gehenna. I almost choked. On another occasion, a group of Tunisians offered me their favorite dish: mloukhiya. At first I thought it would be made with okra, which, unlike your uncle Touissa, I very much like. But when they served me the dish, I saw before me a blackish-greenish stew whose smell made my stomach turn. I dipped my bread in it out of politeness. It tasted like henna and the meat that came along with it was like rubber. May God protect us!”

  “I hear one of their specialties is couscous with fish,” Haji Mohammed’s eldest added, apparently set on taking the conversation in an insipid direction.

  “And why not with pork?” Haji Mohammed guffawed, provoking a general hilarity. “Nothing further need be said. If you want to eat well, don’t travel, stay home. Fez, my friends, with its big houses! Our women have a golden touch! They can make a finger-licking feast even out of dry beans.”

  “And the water, let’s not forget the water of Fez,” Driss added. “It’s as sweet as honey.”

  “That it is,” Haji Mohammed said approvingly, “one of the blessings bestowed upon us by Moulay Idriss, may his baraka last.”

  NAMOUSS WAS BEGINNING to get tired. While his uncle had been speaking about matters to do with the sacred, Namouss had refrained from giving in to his desire to flee to the hills. But now that the conversation had turned to bizarre dishes, he was bored. He therefore felt free to slip off and explore the orchard.

  The place was absolutely enchanting. Since the garden was on a slope, the clumps of trees and terraced vegetable patches offered the view of a vast stretch of flowers and greens extending all the way to the paved road at the lower end of the garden. What was more, this configuration made the orchard into a little labyrinth, allowing one to slip out of sight and stroll through it as freely as one liked. Bowing to an ancient instinct, Namouss picked up a broken-off tree branch and, thus armed, headed confidently into that luminous, aromatic maze. What struck him at first was the wide array of trees that he could not put a name to. White, pink, red, and violet flowers. Were they prune or pear or pomegranate trees? The only one he could identify for certain was the lemon tree, whose fruit was weighing down its branches. The extent of his ignorance of botany was even greater when it came to plants. There were too many. He consoled himself by inspecting a patch of mint whose smell he recognized before the lightbulb lit up in his mind and the name burst out of him: liqama! Oh, if only Mr. Cousin were here! He might have helped him read from that unfamiliar book. But he wasn’t, so Namouss would have to do his best to manage on his own. He figured the best way to learn about plants would be to pick some. No sooner said than done. The first he pulled out of the ground revealed a root in the early stages of growth. It was anyone’s guess as to whether it was a turnip or a carrot! That’s if it wasn’t a potato. Through trial and error, he carried on with his predatory work and wound up unearthing something that looked half decent: a sizable, bright-red radish, which he wiped clean and bit down on without a modicum of self-restraint, as if it was the first time. That radish was like nothing he’d ever tasted before. Aside from its vague peachy taste and its unparalleled freshly plucked freshness, there was the fact that he had discovered it and pulled it from the earth with his own hands. His taste buds were forever marked by that experience. From now on, as with the madeleine, we can speak of “Namouss’s radish.”

  The exploration of the orchard continued and the foliage grew thicker. Imitating characters he’d seen at the cinema, our hero brandished his stick like a machete and cleared a path for himself. He didn’t know that what he was cutting down were cornstalks. After a time, other memories surged back, detracting from the flurry of his explorations. Could there not be some savage beast lurking behind one of these thickets, or one of those giant snakes that coiled around you and crushed your bones? At that thought, he pricked up his ears. The silence weighed heavily around him. There were no echoes coming from the direction where his family was gathered. He had gone quite a distance from them. Perhaps he should consider turning back. At that very moment, he heard a suspicious crackle from a cluster of reeds in front him. Showing off was out of the question. He beat a hasty retreat and didn’t stop until he’d escaped the jungle and reached a clearing reassuringly devoid of greenery. He sat down next to a patch full of what he thought was mint. Worn out, he stretched out upon it hoping to indulge in its aroma and closed his eyes. It certainly felt good, but there was no smell to speak of. Surprised by this, he got up so as to better inspect this anomaly. It’s definitely mint, he said to himself. Then why wasn’t it giving off any smell? His inquisitive nature led him to try to better understand this phenomenon. He plucked a few leaves, rubbed them on his palms, and brought them to his nose. The smell was revolting. It must be a weed, he figured, as he was beginning to feel a bizarre tingle start to tickle the palms of his hands and the tip of his nose. Soon enough, this transformed into a devilish, burning sting. He thought he was doing the right thing by waving his hands about and blowing on them. But the pain only got stronger. He rushed toward the nouala so he could tell his mother.

  “I’ve been stung by something!” he screamed, writhing.

  “By what, a scorpion?”

  “No, the mint that’s growing over there.”

  “You idiot, that isn’t mint. Those must be stinging nettles. Dip your hands in a bucket of cold water. It’ll go away soon enough.”

  “And what about my nose?”

  “What about your nose?”

  “It’s stinging too.”

  “Oh well, that’s a pity. That’ll teach you not to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  The burning began to subside fifteen minutes later. Namouss went back to the men’s circle. Looking like he could go on forever, Haji Mohammed was on the umpteenth chapter of his pilgrimage.

  “A thousand thousands of us were circling around the Kaaba, chanting, ‘We have answered Your call. To convey blessings upon You!’ Our invocations made the ground beneath our feet tremble and lifted an immense flock of pigeons into the sky. Oh, dear ones, when this last rite had been performed and we had to start thinking about making our way back, our hearts almost broke. Saying goodbye to those holy places was more difficult for me than the suffering I’d felt when my mother breathed her last on her deathbed. But that was only a temporary goodbye. Inshallah, in two years’ time, I will perform my second pilgrimage.”

  “May He bless us with His generosity!” Driss sighed, who so dearly wanted to partake in the privilege. To console himself, he quoted an old adage: “The eye sees far, but the hand falls short.”

  “God is generous,” Haji Mohammed replied sympathetically.

  A light veil of sadness hovered over this epilogue when Uncle Touissa made his appearance, preceded by his signature laugh. He was so gussied up that Namouss barely recognized him. Instead of his usual black overcoat, he was wearing a white djellaba and sporting new babouches. On his head was a gray felt watani with a tear down the middle, a fashion popularized by the nationalists, which was beginning to give the usual red fez stiff competition. Never one to come empty-handed, Touissa had brought with him two types of fresh cheese from the dairy. He’d strung them up on a branch to drip dry before joining the gathering. Even before he sat down, jokes came out from all sides.

  “So Touissa, are these nice new clothes of yours meant to finally announce the happy occasion?”

  “Is she Arab or Berber, your fiancée?”

  “Is she a Fezzi or from Marrakech?”

  “Must be a Frenchwoman.”

  “What do you need, you who are naked? A ring, oh Monsignor!”

  “Congratulations, you’ve come back to your senses.”

  Touissa only picked up on a few bits and pieces of this banter, bu
t since he was able to read their lips, he reacted with his usual chuckle. They made room for him and served him some tea. The sun was at its peak. It spilled gold dust over the orchard that the zephyr liked to lick up. A silence settled, allowing the birds to give a brief performance. A turtledove distinguished itself with its pious tremolos (is that not the word we use when someone evokes God’s name?).

  Driss judged that the time had come to satisfy more earthly cravings.

  “How’s it looking?” he called in the direction of the nouala. And, playing on words, he added, smiling: “Tell a baker his dough has fallen and you’ll get a rise out of him.”

  “We’re coming,” Ghita replied, “everything’s ready.”

  Soon enough the sun’s shower of gold dust was chased away by the dense smoke emanating from the barbecue on which the first round of kofta and kebabs were being grilled. Ghita was everywhere. She was supervising the grilling of the meat, filling each plate with a portion of salad, cutting the bread, and making the tea. She barely allowed the girls to set the table.

  The meal, especially the kofta, was to everyone’s satisfaction. Driss explained: “I wanted you all to try camel meat today. It’s the best sort of meat for kofta. The secret lies in the preparation. Above all, one must never use those machines that are so popular these days. Nothing beats the traditional methods the maâllem uses to chop the meat; he takes his time, tasting it and adding the requisite spices when needed, without of course forgetting the herbs, especially marjoram, to get the flavor just right. As for the kebabs, if you want them really tender you have no choice but to use a leg of lamb. Eat up, eat up, there’s plenty where that came from.”

  Driss wasn’t exaggerating.

  After such a meal, a siesta was in order. Namouss wasn’t able to get out of it. When he woke up, he found the men had gathered once again, this time to play cards using a Spanish deck. They were playing tri, where they had the option to inform their respective partners of which cards to drop and which to hold on to via a series of complicated hand signals. They wore their poker faces and kept their wits about them. Driss was partnered with Touissa against Haji Mohammed and his eldest son. The teams’ abilities were clearly mismatched. The haji’s team was in the lead and Driss was fulminating against his partner, deeming him too scatterbrained.